On October 6
by oselle
Summary: A brief story, set on Tol Eressea, long after Frodo has sailed West. AU and OC.
1. Default Chapter

_Author's note_: AU and OC, this brief story is set well after Frodo has sailed West, and assumes that he is living on Tol Eressea. I like to imagine that he has found some female companionship on the island; she is the narrator of the story. (I try to avoid potential Mary Sue pitfalls by keeping my narrator anonymous.) Unfortunately, I also imagine that Frodo's healing in the West would have been a long process over the course of years, not an instantaneous cure.  
  
This is my first story on this or any site. Please feel free to review.   
  
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**On October 6  
  
**He put his left hand in mine and it was warm. "You see?" he said. "I think it will be all right. Today is October fifth…last year I was already sick for _three days_ by this time. And the year before that, I was ill for a _week_ before the sixth. Every year there is less of it…perhaps this year it is gone!"  
  
I wove my fingers through his. They _were _warm, and not even vaguely rigid. "I think you may be right," I said. "I think this may be the year."  
  
He put his arms around me, and I embraced him, enjoying his happiness. But in my heart, I did not believe my own words. Every year, it was true, the duration of his illness had lessened. Yet the severity of it when it came had not. He was sick for only five days last year, the shortest time his illness had ever lasted, and yet at its worst, he had still been afflicted to the point of delirium. Could every trace of such an illness have disappeared in only one more year's time?   
  
I did not share this with him, for he deserved the chance to believe that he was, at last, well. And although he frequently seemed able to guess my thoughts and moods, he was so moved by his own faith in his healing that he either did not feel my concerns, or he chose to overlook them. I loved to see him so happy.   
  
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I awoke in the dark of night, lying curled behind him and my hand was on his arm, above the bend of his elbow. Through the soft fabric of his nightshirt I felt that his arm was cool, and my heart fell.   
  
I sat up and leaned over him, expecting to find him already awake, but I saw that he slept on, his face peaceful and his breathing easy. I did not dare to touch his old wound, for fear of waking him, but I ran my hand lightly up his shoulder, and did find it cool. Yet when I touched his fingers, they were still warm and relaxed.   
  
_There is a chill in the room, _I thought, relieved. There _was_ a chill in the room, and he had been sleeping with his left arm above the blankets, covered only by his sleeve. I touched my _own_ upper arm, and found that a bit cool as well, and I almost laughed at my own fondness for assuming the worst.  
  
I decided that a bit of fire was in order; if he did take ill, even a little, it would be better if the room were not so cold. I wrapped myself in my dressing gown and went to the hearth. The embers were still glowing there, and it took little time to stir up a small, but warming fire. I turned back to the bed and saw that he was now lying on his back, his head turned away from me, towards the window. I could see the moonlight's reflection in his eyes, and knew that he was awake.  
  
I climbed onto the bed and settled myself cross-legged next to him. I took his left hand between mine, and it seemed to me that it was just a touch cooler than it had been before. _It is only an illusion_, I chided myself. _My own hands are so warm from making up the fire_. His fingers curled easily around mine without a trace of stiffness. Nevertheless, I shook down the long, heavy sleeves of my dressing gown so that they draped over his hand and mine.    
  
He did not speak to me, but his eyes were calm and lucid as he stared out at the night sky. Yet something in his rapt attention to the window began to unsettle me; he appeared almost spellbound.   
  
"What are you looking at?" I whispered, for it seemed that he had not blinked in a long time.  
  
"There is a red star there," he said slowly, without taking his eyes from the window. "A red star lies on the horizon. It is always there at this time of year.   
  
I leaned forward until my cheek was almost touching his, so that I could see the sky at the same angle that he did. "Frodo, I don't see it. There is nothing there."  
  
"It is there," he sighed. "It is there. I used to look at it from my room in Rivendell. The red star in the South. Red as blood. Even now it follows me."  
  
I looked down at him, right into his eyes, and then up again, trying to follow his sightline as closely as possible. I saw it then. A scarlet dot on the horizon, dimmed by the light of the Hunter's Moon and the other, brighter stars. A red pinprick that flickered like a flame. Or winked like an eye.   
  
"I see it," I said quietly, not moving, knowing that if I shifted my position even a little, I would lose sight of it. "I see it now."  
  
"You _do_ see it," he said, with a tone of relief. "It always returns in October. I saw it first in Rivendell. I saw it all that autumn, until we left. It was watching me. It watches me still."  
  
"Frodo, it is only a star. A star of a different color." I tried to laugh. "It is not even a very big one!"  
  
"It grows brighter as the Moon wanes."  
  
"So do all the stars!"  
  
"No. This one is different. It does not move. It is always in the same place. It is His Eye. It is what is left of Him." I heard a note of panic tinge his voice. "Even here I see It. Even here It sees me." He sighed again, heavier, almost moaning, and then shivered. With terrible dismay, I felt his hand grow markedly colder between mine, so rapidly that it seemed his veins suddenly flowed with ice water instead of blood. I chafed it and drew my sleeves around his hand and arm although I knew it would do no good. He suffered yet. He was not healed.   
  
I pressed his forearm to my breast and with my left hand on his cheek, I turned his face away from the window. "Don't look at it. It is just a star, but don't look at it. I will draw the curtains so that you can't see it."  
  
"I will know that it is there," he answered, his voice catching on the last word, and even in the pale light from the window I could see that his eyes were dimming, that he was becoming confused. He shuddered and his teeth began to chatter. He blinked rapidly and his eyes shifted from side to side. "Where am I? What is happening?"  
  
"You are home," I said, and held his hand tighter. I stroked the side of his face. "You are safe. Nothing will happen to you here."  
  
"No…" he said. He clenched his teeth and tried to pull away, to sit up, but he fell back against the pillow, in pain. His hand was no longer able to clasp mine; the hand and arm were so cold I could feel them against my breast, through my clothing. Yet I held on. I took my left hand from his face and laid it against his frozen shoulder.   
  
"This is not home!" he cried. "We must go! Put out the fire! Oh…they are here! They are here!" He twisted away and shut his eyes, grimacing with pain.  
  
I leaned forward and pressed my face against his. His left cheek was icy, as if he had been outdoors on a frigid day. I could feel his teeth chattering inside his mouth, feel his lips tremble against me. I knew that I would have to get up. I knew that I would have to get a warm compress for his shoulder. But I could not leave him yet, not when this was just upon him.   
  
"It's all right," I whispered into his ear, hoping that he could still hear me. "It's all right, this will pass. Stay with me, Frodo. Stay with me."  
  
He groaned something unintelligible. I lifted my head to look into his face. His eyes were open but unseeing, all clarity gone from them. He trembled helplessly. He was lost in the shadows, and would not return until they had released him for another year. There was nothing I could do. I turned my eyes back to the window and now I had no trouble finding the red star. It burned low in the South, above the line of the trees, and as I watched, it winked at me. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2 Author's Note_: I hadn't thought to continue this but it was nagging at me persistently. This unexpectedly turned into a Sam story as I was writing it; you know how these things can take on a life of their own! The song that appears at the end of this story is obviously quoted from Tolkien's _Return of the King_, "The Tower of Cirith Ungol," which I quote here wholly without any sort of permission whatsoever except the sheer love of these characters. Everyone here posts a disclaimer, so I'll jump on that bandwagon: I certainly don't own or make any money off of any of these characters.   
  
Thank you to everyone who posted reviews for Chapter One. I'd like to say this story is "complete" but I'm not quite sure that it is.   
  
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**On October 6, Chapter 2**  
  
The curtains were drawn and no light, neither of moon nor of star, could pass the heavy drapery. The red star, if it were still there, burned alone and unseen on the Southern horizon, its flame smothered in the deepest part of the night. I did not care to look.   
  
Inside, the only light came from the low fire, and though it was warm, the room felt dim and cheerless, as sickrooms always do. Since Frodo had taken ill, I had sat up and put warm compresses on his shoulder and spoken to him quietly until he eased. He had either fallen asleep or merely into an exhausted stupor; his eyes were closed and he did not toss or call out. I took the compress from his shoulder and covered him up warmly and lay down next to him, thinking to get a little sleep.   
  
I had dozed for only a little while when I felt him stir and make a tight sound in his throat. I looked up and saw that he had turned his face to the side, and was lying with his good hand over his eyes, his eyebrows drawn together, as if suffering a terrible headache. He had begun to breathe in a shallow, shuddering pant.  
  
"Must the fire be lit?" he asked, and his teeth were almost clenched. "You know I can't bear the light."   
  
"I know, but it will be too cold without it. Here…" I lifted his hand and placed a warmed compress against his eyes, and laid my hand over the cloth. "Is that better?"  
  
He covered my hand with his own. "Yes. Yes, thank you." He seemed to quiet, but I did not lie down again. I sat with one hand over his eyes and with the other I stroked his hair away from his forehead.   
  
I had long ago grown accustomed to his uncanny ability to see in the dark. He was able to find his way about the house at night with no candle or lamp, and I had walked outside with him on moonless nights so black that I needed to cling to his hand or be lost, while he did not even miss a step, and moved as easily as if in plain daylight. He had told me of how he first noticed it in the Mines, and that he knew it was an effect of the blade that had struck him. But when the illness that the same blade had wrought came upon him, it slowly hindered and then robbed him of real sight altogether. At first there was just a veiling of his vision, then this aversion to light, any light, even the softest glowing fire or candle. If this followed the course of all the previous years, he would soon lose his sight altogether, except in absolute pitch darkness, and would remain that way until the spell had passed. If even the light of this little fire pained him, I knew for certain that while the duration of his illness may have lessened, the severity of it had not. Not this year.  
   
"Not this year then," he said, echoing my own thoughts, as he so often did.  
  
"No, not this year. Although it won't last long, at least."  
  
"Not ever, perhaps."  
  
"No, someday it will be gone altogether."  
  
He smiled weakly. "When _I_ am gone, I fear."  
  
"No, you will be healed before then."  
  
He stroked the back of my hand with his own. "I am sorry you have to suffer this with me."  
  
"I only suffer in that I cannot take this from you."  
  
"You…" he began, but his words were cut off by a sharp intake of breath. He groaned and took his hand from mine and raised himself up on his elbow, twisting away from me.  
  
"What is it?" I asked, alarmed by the sudden change. "Are you in pain?"  
  
"Yes," he forced out between his teeth. He groaned again, his voice rising nearly to a scream as pain assailed him a second time. "It's like being stabbed again. All over again…" His body seized and he tilted his head back and then he _did_ scream, not with full-throated strength, but with a hopeless, gasping sound.   
  
I put my arm around his chest and cradled his head, trying to ease him back down onto the bed. "Lie down," I told him. "Lie down and breathe."  
  
"I can't, I can't," he cried, shaking his head. "It makes it worse, it…it…" He sucked air in through his teeth and I saw tears beginning to trickle from his eyes. His unsteady position gave out and I was just able to catch him as he fell backwards. He stared blindly up at the ceiling.  
  
"I can't see," he said and grimaced against another wave of pain.   
  
I knew what I had to do. He needed another compress, he needed to be kept warm, he needed darkness and quiet, he needed…  
  
And suddenly I remembered that Sam was here. He had arrived only a week ago, and of course I had not told him that Frodo still fell sick upon this anniversary. Sam had been overjoyed to see Frodo looking so well and happy, and I had hoped, as Frodo had, that this year he would not be sick. Yet he was afflicted again, and in all the previous years when Frodo had lain in his delirium, always there had come a point at which he had asked or called out for Sam, and there had been nothing that I could do to comfort him. But for the first time, Sam was here.   
  
I caressed Frodo's face but he seemed barely aware of my presence. I rearranged the covers over him and left the room to bring Sam.  
  
"Sam…wake up."  
  
"What," he said sleepily. "What is it?"  
  
"Frodo is sick…will you come sit with him? I think it will do him good."  
  
Sam was instantly awake and alert. "What day is this?"   
  
"October 6," I answered, and I did not need to explain any further. Sam rose immediately and we returned to Frodo's room.   
  
In the faint light of the candle that I held aloft, we looked down at Frodo, staring sightlessly, gasping with cold and pain.   
  
"Why is he still so sick? I thought he was healed of all his ills!"  
  
"He is healing, but slowly. It was a grievous wound, and not only to the body." The red star suddenly came to my mind, and brought with it an unbidden and unwanted thought. _And the evil that inflicted it_ _will never be wholly gone from this world_. But I did not speak this out loud.   
  
"I know," Sam sighed. "I was there."  
  
He kneeled by the edge of the bed. He took Frodo's rigid left hand and kissed it and laid it on his breast, then set his own warm hand on Frodo's forehead. "Frodo, can you hear me? I know you can hear me. It's your Sam, Frodo. Frodo?"  
  
Frodo turned blindly to the sound of his voice. "Sam…it's so dark…where is Strider…where are the others?"  
  
"There, there," he said reassuringly. "Don't you worry about anything. Everyone is all right."  
  
"We have to go now! We have to get away from here before they come back!"  
  
"They're not coming back, Frodo, they're all gone. Let them go."  
  
"Let them…? Sam…is that really you?" he asked, his voice suddenly suspicious with fear. "Why can't I see you?"  
  
"It's nothing Frodo, it's just dark, and that's all."  
  
"But it's so cold…"  
  
"I know, Frodo. I know."  
  
Frodo took a deep breath, the distress on his face easing. Sam stroked Frodo's cheek and smiled, and his face glowed with compassion and love. Frodo had spoken of Sam for years, so fondly that I felt I knew him long before I ever met him in the flesh. I had witnessed their joy at their reunion, that sunny day only a week ago, on the quay at Avallonë. As I sat beside him, I could feel Sam's love; it shone forth from his face, it seemed to resonate from him. I understood well, for I loved Frodo with a depth and an entirety that still astonished me. Yet Sam was bound to Frodo in a way that I could never be. Sam had walked with him through the depths of hell, and the power of his own love had been strong enough to shield them both. Sam had saved Frodo's life, and perhaps his soul as well. The image of the red star came briefly to my mind, then was gone. It was irrelevant. There could be no force in this world as strong as such love.   
  
I touched Sam's arm. "He responds to your touch and your voice. I knew that he would."  
  
Sam smiled. "He needs to feel us near him, when he's like this. It's the only thing that helps."  
  
"Sam, stay here tonight. We should sleep here with him."  
  
"Of course. That's what he needs. It's the best medicine in the world."  
  
Sam and I turned him over onto his right side, but as gentle as we were with him, he still cried out.   
  
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Sam said under his breath. "Don't take on so. Just give us a moment," and I could not suppress a smile at his tender, fatherly tone.   
  
I lay down behind Frodo, cradling him against myself, and Sam lay down before him. Between us we wrapped him into a warm embrace. His body was so cold against mine that a shiver ran through me, and when I rested my cheek against the back of his neck, I could feel his chill on my face. Even his _hair_ was cold. I looked at Sam, who placed his forehead against Frodo's and spoke to him in a hushed voice.  
  
"How is that, Frodo? How does that feel?"  
  
Frodo swallowed and nodded. "Better…warmer."  
  
"All right, well, we're not going anywhere. We won't leave you."  
  
"No, don't leave. It's so cold…and I can't see…"  
  
"Shh, shh, I know, but it will pass, tomorrow you'll be right as rain, you won't even remember this."  
  
"Tomorrow it will all be over."  
  
"Yes, that's right Frodo, and you'll be yourself again."  
  
"Tomorrow we'll reach the mountain and it will be over, at last. I am glad. I am so tired."  
  
"No, Frodo, there is no mountain. Tomorrow you'll wake up in your own bed, safe and sound."  
  
"Oh, Sam, you're wrong. I am tired and sick and I am ready for this to end."  
  
"Now, Mr. Frodo," Sam began, and I was surprised to hear him lapsing back into this formal address. His voice was thick and I saw tears standing in his eyes, reflecting the fire's dying light. "You don't know what you're saying. You're fine and you're safe now." He reached up and caressed Frodo's cheek. "Finally."  
  
Frodo sighed and lay quietly for a moment, only shivering. He seemed to be asleep, when he began to hum, very softly.  
  
"What is that, Mr. Frodo? That sounds familiar."  
  
Frodo said nothing, only continued to hum, and then began to sing words in a low, wavering voice.   
  
_"…above all shadows rides the Sun  
and Stars for ever dwell…"  
  
_"I remember, Mr. Frodo. I remember." And Sam sang with him.  
  
_"I will not say the Day is done…"  
_  
I lay and listened to them singing, here in this quiet room, in this warm bed, singing words they had last shared in a far different place, under the shadow of death. Tears came to my eyes and I pressed my face against Frodo's icy shoulder.   
  
Frodo trailed off and Sam finished the last line.   
  
_"…nor bid the Stars farewell."  
  
_And we lay in perfect silence.   
  
I felt Frodo's breathing become deep and steady. He was asleep. I looked at Sam, across the shadowy halo of Frodo's curls between us.  
  
"He's asleep," Sam whispered.  
  
"I know." I lifted Sam's hand from Frodo's cheek and kissed it and lay it down again. "Thank you."  
  
"It weren't anything," he said. He looked back at his dear friend's sleeping face. "It weren't nothing at all."


End file.
